


The sweetest lie

by courgette96



Series: Promotion of pawn [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Loki Angst, Mental Breakdown, Odin's A+ Parenting, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:23:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3153887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courgette96/pseuds/courgette96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't understand how people could ever have scorned him for his lies.</p><p>It is always the truth that hurts most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The sweetest lie

**Author's Note:**

> No beta, all mistakes are mine.

 Everything is noise, screaming and begging, glass shattering as he relentlessly shatters the eyes staring back at him. Someone is howling in rage, others are pleading for him to stop, please Loki please calm down. Snarling, a hand on his shoulder, and then howling. His hand swipes the air, the sound of burning joined by slashing, and no one will stand in his way as he makes those hateful red eyes _disappear!_

 Red on his hand, red on his chest, red in those monstrous eyes that won’t go away no matter how long he smashes the mirror. But they need to, he can’t bare it, can’t stand to see! He howls in rage and despair, and that is when a swarm of gloved hands push him back down.

 He struggles, because no, no, he can still see them, he isn’t done, why would they? His limbs flail, and the world is reduced to black and blue, on his arms and the skin of those who fight him. How he hates blue.

 He yells, he screams, he bites, but it isn’t enough, and eventually his shoulders are pinned to the bed as he stares up at horrified faces. Someone is crying near him, but he doesn’t care because he can still see, still face the monstrous blue and black and _red_ , everyone is staring at him. Twenty eyes for twenty reflections, go away go away, he doesn’t want to look!

 He will not, he will never see it again, he can’t. He rips one of his arms free, because he knows now how to truly destroy those eyes. He has figured it out.

 He feels blood running down his face, pouring from the fresh cut upon his brow inflicted by his claws. Red again, but he is almost done, he will rip and squish and know true darkness, and those eyes will be gone!

 But his limbs fail him. He fails, as always, and he cries as his strength suddenly leaves him. His arms are secured to the side of the bed. All he can do is stare at the ceiling, where there is nothing to see but a clean white, the only color he can stand.

 The tears streaming down his face are burning hot; he lets them fall.

 Then a potion in forced down his throat and everything fades away.

 

  Flashes of color swarm within his mind. He sees blue, black, green and gold, silver and red. There is no context to these visions, but still his heart fills with longing. His mind, however, is blank with panic.

 It chokes him, sends him spiraling down an abyss as the images grow sharper. He sees pointed teeth and horned brows. Sees children’s books filled with monsters of ice and rage. Blue flames and boxes.

  _I will slay them all!_

  He wants to cry out, wants to scream and cry and lash out, but he is pinned to the bed by the potion. He can do nothing but suffer through this nightmare.

  _Are there any Frost Giants left, Father?_

 His hands were blue. His eyes were red.

 He moans

  _You’re in for a doozy._

Distantly, he hears someone trying to sooth him. In his delirium, it all becomes the mocking laughter of a woman who wasn’t.

 

 

 

 He is drifting in and out of consciousness. His movements are sluggish, but he can manage to move his head with great effort. Enough to see his hands tied to the side of the bed, just at eye level.

 He would cry if he didn’t feel so numb.

 He tugs weakly at the bonds, unsurprised to see them hold strong. The movement is enough to draw his mother’s attention. She is sitting in the corner of the room – why so far away? However, as soon as she sees he’s aware, she runs towards him, hands outstretched.

 His eyes widen.

 Her hands are burnt. 

 It is a hideous wound, the skin burnt away to reveal black flesh beneath. The area around the black is a patchwork of white and blue. Only very little of the original pale pink remains. A frost burn.

 He loves his mother’s hands. As a child, he adored the feel of them running through his hair, was fascinated with their elegant dexterity as she weaved her visions. Now that he was grown, he still saw them as a source of support, whenever he sought out comfort he was too proud to demand. They would embrace him then, full of the love of a mother and the quiet strength of a queen.

 They are precious beyond belief. They are thoroughly ruined.

 It’s all his fault.

 He moans as she comes nearer, enough to make her step falter.

 “Loki…?” Her voice trembles.

 “I’m sorry…” he mumbles. He stares at her hands as he continues. “I’m sorry, I hurt you…. They were so beautiful… I ‘m so sorry….”

 “Oh Loki.” She kneels by his side. “It isn’t your fault.”

 “So sorry… I didn’t mean to. But I hurt you…” he chokes out. “Forgive me, please…”

 Even as he says those words, he denies them in his mind. How could he be forgiven? He harmed her, hurt the All-Mother of Asgard. He should be shunned, killed, punished for such treason!

 He remembers witnessing a whipping as a child. A guard had failed to attend his shift, years of peace making him complacent in his duty. The decision had been swift, twenty-five lashes. The All-Father had judged him old enough to attend.

 It was gruesome. He had watched from a distance, as befitted a prince, but still had in full view the poor man’s back. The cuts had been large, revealing bleeding flesh. Blood trickled from the wounds, covering his back. He couldn’t make out skin beneath it all.

 How he longs for the whip now! How he wishes for the hideous skin covering him to disappear!

 “Hush, my son, hush.” She murmurs, drawing him back to the present. “There is nothing to forgive.”

 She moves to stroke his face, but he jerks away.

“Do not touch me!” he yells, making her recoil.

 “You can’t touch me…I’ll hurt you…It’s the skin, the skin” he babbles madly. “I know it, I read about it…. The f-f-…they...” He sobs brokenly.

 Because it is a thought he can barely consider, much less express. He recognizes all too well the features that now define him. He understands why he feels so hot now, why the world seems so bright. He is no fool, he knows what shape he wears.

 What he doesn’t know is _why._

 “It’s…it’s a curse,” he whispers. “Isn’t it…? That woman, she did it, she…” And then he starts shacking, no, nonono, he didn’t want to remember that, nonononono. “Did you see her? Did you know?” He looks at her with wild eyes. “They didn’t see… They didn’t understand, a coward they called me….But you must have seen, you do seidr, you can…. Her eyes.” He starts crying then. “Straight through me, so dark and deep.” He is shaking now.

 Once again she moves to touch him, but he is still coherent enough to dodge her. She looks at him with eyes filled with sorrow. “Yes Loki, I saw what she was.”

 He lets out a shaky breath. “Then you know what she can do… She cursed me, didn’t she? This is a curse.”  He looks up at her. “Isn’t it?”

 She is close to crying now. “No Loki, you are not cursed.”

 “Then you can fix it. You can make it go away, you can make me normal again” he whispers. “You can fix me.”

 “Oh, my son, my son.” She clings to him, desperation making her swifter than his weak body can counter. “There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing to fix. I am sorry, so sorry.” She sobs. “I have failed you so, in so many ways.” She cups his cheek in her hand. “This is you, my son, my boy, and there is no shame in that. You are my beautiful, my wonderful Loki, and you always will be.”

 “But it has to be a curse… It can’t…. I can’t be…” he pleads.  He looks at her with desperate eyes. “What am I?”

  “You are our son, Loki,” she states through her tears. “Nothing less. Your father will explain everything, but know this: no matter your origins or your blood, you will always be our son.”

 He looks away, staring into the distance. “But it has to be a curse…”

 If she does anything else, he doesn’t notice.

 

 

 

 The ceiling is smooth and pure. If he stares long enough, he can make himself believe he is falling into a white abyss. It’s the closest to running away he can come too in his situation.

 He has always been a coward.

 

 

 

 Father is still speaking. He must be, because his lips are still moving. However, Loki could not confirm that since he cannot hear anything.

 The king has spoken of the war, has revealed a tale never shared before. No glory for that tale, no cheers during a feast nor awe near the fireplace.

 The story of a runt among monsters. A deformed creature born from the king of hideous beings, left to die for it was too useless to live.  The creature survives, because that is what scum does, it endures, it lives on, no matter how much people sneer or wish it gone.

 The creature lives in a land of noble men, of warriors and ladies of honor and valiance. It believes itself to be like them, and because the king was so kind, he allowed it to pretend. But try as one might, dirt remains dirt, and so the creature lied, schemed, was dark and pale next to the bright and golden.

 And the creature thought himself a prince.

 Is it not a fool? Is it not grotesque?

 Loki thinks so. Poor little runt, thinking he could be anything more than a beast to be slayed.

 And oh, the All-Father is talking still, but he hadn’t been paying attention, not since he had finished his tale. Something about plans, and sons, and what do you know? The king is gripping his cheek the same way the Queen has. He is looking at him with a sense of urgency, growing more worried by the second.

 What a peculiar expression the king wears; he is staring at Loki’s face very intently. Is there something wrong with it?

 There is a beat of silence in his thoughts before he starts howling with laughter.

 Of course there is something wrong with it! It is blue, and lined, and un-Aesir and oh, what a foolish creature that runt was!

 His head is thrown back, his back arched from his laughter. The king has let go, but what did Loki expect? The All-Father was always such a grump.

 His voice is hoarse from laughing, it comes out now more as a screech, a growl. A growl…

 He laughs again, harder. Of course the beast would growl!

 Odin is being ushered out of the room, the healers are rushing to him, forcing a potion down his throat.

 Even as the sedation takes hold, he is shivering with laughter.

 This is a doozy indeed.

 

 

 

 The room is silent baring the occasional chuckles that still escape him. It unnerves the healers, he knows, but seeing as he is otherwise calm, they do not intervene.

 Or perhaps what disturbs them is not so much the laughter but the tears that still escape his eyes all the while.

 He does not know why he weeps. Shame, for he is hideous and weak and incapable of the composure that had been his armor for the past centuries. Bitterness, for he has been cursed as a liar, while the biggest deceiver of them all shook his head in shame. Despair, for he knows now he could never be worthy, and any attempt to be more than what he is bound to fail. No honor in a beast, no strength in the runt. No hope for the Laufeyson.

 He laughs, because to think there was a time he thought he could be a hero.

 

 

 

 There is a curtain between him and Thor, at his request.

 It is foolish, he knows, foolish and pathetic to want to shield himself from his brother’s gaze. Let him see, a part of him screams, let him see and condemn, let his judgment fall that you no longer have to wait for the final blow!

 But he can’t, he cannot bring himself to lose this, his brother’s love. His foolish, painful love that left him weeping for recognition as he basked in its warmth. His love that could only be conditional on Thor never, ever, learning the truth. The crown prince of Asgard could never call a Jotun brother. He would do anything to keep it.

 Selfishness, he knows, but that has always been one of his baser traits. (He only has baser traits.)

 “Is this really necessary, brother?” Thor asks.

 “Yes,” he answers simply.

 I am not your brother, Thor, I never was, and we were fools, both of us. I am your enemy, and you should hate me as I have come to hate you throughout the years. You should not call me brother.

 I hope you never stop.

 He hears Thor shift. “This displeases me.” His voice is softer than it has been in centuries. “I have not been permitted to see you, though I well knew your hold on life to be fragile. The wait was killing me.”

 “That makes both of us,” he answers flippantly.

 The prince does not appreciate his humor. “Do not make jests about it!” Loki hears him shift in his seat, before his ~~brother~~ not-brother whispers. “I have never known such helplessness, be it in the throne room or waiting in the hall. Not in all my years. It was terrifying, seeing you face that monster, knowing I could do nothing.”

 Loki’s breathing halts. The fool. He is certain than even after all this time, his brother still hasn’t understood what had been truly facing him that day. Loki himself does not fully comprehend, despite having a clearer notion that most. All he had known was just how hopelessly weak he was.

 He is starting to shake again. His hands grip the edge of his bed in an effort to make his trembling less conspicuous. Ever since he had seen that foul creature, his life had been slipping away from him. His plans, his rank, his future, all ripped away because she had been in this world. ~~Thor is responsible too.~~ That stab in the heart had been a kindness, a mercy, and like the fool he is, he had refused to embrace it.

 “But you have won, brother.” Thor continues, pride thick in his voice. (Why now? Why now, when he can no longer accept such pride?). “For all my fears, for all her violence, you have succeeded. You have defeated her. You have triumphed”

 He thinks of the demon’s sense of whimsy, the only reason why he is alive; of his skin, still blue and disgusting; of how he had hoped, and how he had burned for it.

 “No, I really haven’t.”

 

 

 

  Eir is tending to the wound on his chest. It is mostly healed now, bandages are no longer required.

 As she carefully examines his flesh, he is hit by realization. She knew, she must have. The trusted healer to the Royal family, how could she hope to heal the ~~second prince~~ Jotun spawn if she was not aware of its true nature?

 She is a liar, like the rest of them. And like the rest of them, he had trusted her, had surrendered himself to her care time and time again without a moment’s hesitation.

 Her hands are resting on his chest, white skin pressed to blue. For one long second, he entertains the thought of burning her, disappointed that the reaction is not as instantaneous as he previously thought.

 He distantly notes the monstrosity of his thoughts.  However, he is neither surprised nor repentant.

 As if a monster could be capable of regret.

 “You knew,” he whispers as she straightens herself. The head healer pauses.

 Recuperating, she gathers the discarded bandages in her hand as she answers. “Yes, my prince, I did.”

 He doesn’t bother correcting her on the title. “And yet you said nothing.”

 She looks at him, and for a moment he hates her for the pity he sees in her gaze. “As was ordered by my King.” She looks her way, frowning and scrunching her nose. It is the same look of disapproval he has often received as a child, when his latest attempt at a prank resulted in getting himself injured. “It is not my place to defy the All-father, especially not in matters regarding his family. It was not my secret to tell.”

 He hums thoughtfully, looking at the wall. “Wasn’t it mine to know?”

 The proud Lady has no answer.

 

 

 

 He has many luxuries in this healing room, which is in fact more of a small suite. The millennia-old charade needs to be continued after all.

 And so like a prince of Asgard, the robes he wears are of the finest material. Like a prince of Asgard, his meals are always prepared of the best produce. Like a prince, he has at his disposal many chairs and cushion for potential guests.

 Not that he receives any. Eir has forbidden for the glamour to be restored so long as he wasn’t in complete health. And so he remains the King and Queen’s dirty little secret.

 Apart from the occasional conversation with Thor, the curtain still firmly in place, the most company he has is Frigga. Whenever she can put aside her duties, she joins him for a meal and stays with him as long as she is able.

 He is more grateful than he could express, amazed that the Queen of Asgard would still associate herself with him now that all lies are gone. Then again, she had always had a capacity for love that amazed him, that had left him never doubting of her affections. No matter how much ~~his brother~~ Thor dismissed or ~~Father~~ Odin raged, she had always been constant in her tenderness.

 Only she could love such an abomination as himself, he thinks almost fondly.

 The All-father hasn’t returned since he revealed the truth. Loki isn’t surprised, the king would have no more business with him.

 He refuses to dwell on it though, choosing instead to contemplate the meal set before him. A table for two, as his Mother had promised to join him. Despite his hunger he waits for her, his education overriding what must be barbarian instincts.

 As he drifts into thought, memories come to him. He is young in one, playing in the palace’s garden with Thor and his companions. He spent days slaying imaginary Frost Giants, whilst Thor boasted about how heroically he would rid Yggdrasil of them. He remembers a feast, where the grand General Tyr told tails of the Jotunheim war, recounting each kill as the surrounding warriors roared in approval.

 All it takes for approval is to kill a Frost Giant.

 He picks up a knife from in front of him. Would it be the same for him though? Kinslaying is a serious charge in Asgard, a greater shame than cowardice or weakness. Then again, no one would be surprised if a Jotun behaved dishonorably.

 Bearing that in mind, would killing the son of Laufey erase the taint of suicide? He thinks it would. Besides, people view him as a prince of Asgard, the entire realm would revel in another chance to praise its royal family.

 He drags the knife lightly across his neck, letting it rest just above his artery. In truth, people never need know that the second prince and the Laufeyson are one and the same. The All-Father could announce that his son had died in battle, a far more noble death than anyone would have expected of the Trickster. That would erase the shame of the House of Odin. He twirls the knife over the thin expanse of flesh.

 His mother comes through the door.

 He looks up to her. They are both frozen in place, she blanching in horror, him smiling like a child caught after committing a small infraction.

 Slowly he puts the knife down.

 

 

 

 “I do not understand you, Loki.” Odin calls out.

 Loki looks up from his book, eyes narrowing. Why? Why come now, after three weeks of silence?

 “When I came to tell you the truth about your origins, I expected you to be… distressed. Especially in regards of the hardships you had gone through recently.” The All-father steps forward, looking grave. “I did not foresee that the revelation would be… amusing to you.”

 Loki lifts an eyebrow, but otherwise remains silent.

 “And when I had word of your sorrow, I did not expect it to last so long. That it would go to such a point that I would find your mother fearing for your life. Tell me, why did you seek to punish yourself so?”

 “Is it not obvious? Does your famed wisdom fail you, in front of such a base monster?” He chuckles, then raises his hand in mock apology. “Ah, but I apologize All-Father, as I have understood that my laughter displeases you. Do forgive this insolent runt.”

 “Insolent, yes I would agree.” Odin glowers. “I do not come here to be mocked, I will not tolerate this from you.”

 “No, I imagine you won’t.” Loki answers sweetly. “Is that why you have not graced me with your presence earlier? My offense must have made my company unbearable.”

 “You know that is untrue.” He replies calmly.

 This incenses him further. How dare he remain so calm, when Loki is shattering? “No, I do not think that was it. Is it the skin, then? So distasteful, you must have been relieved to see it disappear the first time you laid eyes on me.” He sneers. “Oh, for you to bear the sight of me, clearly the mark of a man used to facing monsters.”

 “You know very well why I cast my glamour. Asgard is no safe haven for a Frost Giant!”

 “Why should it be? Monsters should never be safe from destruction!”

 “Do not speak that way!” Odin bites out, composure finally breaking. “Such mindless hate, such thoughtless cruelty! That is not fitting of a prince of Asgard!”

 “Oh, but you are wrong All-Father, so very wrong.” Loki pures viciously.  “It is exactly the proper behavior of a prince, of any Aesir. It is a behavior you have approved of time and time again. Why are you so surprised to see mindlessness come for such a basic creature?”

 “I thought you smarter than that, Loki. I am disappointed to hear such childishness coming from you.”

 “Oh, disappointed, All-Father?” His voice goes higher and higher as he speaks, making him sound almost hysterical. It isn’t so far from the truth. “I imagine you would be used to that by now. Such an embarrassment, the second prince, the schemer, the seidr-wielder, the _ergi_!” He spits out that last insult, revels in using such foul language in the presence of the king. “Perhaps you had hoped more of the jotun spawn! Perhaps you thought there would be some base brutishness that could be molded into creating a warrior! As usual, I have failed you in your plans!”

 “Loki…” the king growls dangerously.

 “You must have despaired, I think, that the spare heir was no suitable replacement. Was it worth it? So much food, gold and effort spent on one so unworthy of them! All those years gone to waste! Oh, All-Father, I do not blame you for leaving me in the tender mercies of your court. A man can only do so much, after all, perhaps the constant whispers would have succeeded where you had failed.”

 “Stop it this instance!”

 But Loki is too far gone, cannot and will not stop. “And to think you soiled yourself with Jotun blood! Then again, you have been in such a situation before. But your ceremonial armor is not something to be stained, so I do not know why you bothered. I was dying on the floor, too disoriented to notice whether you would come or not. I imagine you didn’t care that the runt would die in your name, but at least its death was not as shameful as its life!”

 “Enough!” Odin roars. “You will be silent! How dare you, how could you say such things to me!”

 “I CAME BACK FOR YOU!” Loki cries. “I could have died a prince, but I came back! I came back to this! Why beckon me back to such a horrid existence? Why, when you knew I would be incapable of refusing you?!”

 The king’s breath is ragged, but he has calmed down. “My son…”

 But Loki isn’t finished. “I came back for you, but you weren’t there. You never have been.”

 The king stares quietly at him, before saying softly. “You shouldn’t have.”

 He stares at him in shock. It is one thing to yell it to his ~~Father~~ , but to have it confirmed…. Loki should not have returned from Helheim’s door. He should have stayed dead…

 He feels himself go numb.

 Loki has no Father. He never has.

 “We are done, then,” he hears himself say. He turns away from Odin. “This discussion has taken its toil on me. Please excuse me as I go rest.”

  He goes to his bedroom without turning back, the All-Father’s silence following him.

 

 

 

 “The people of Asgard are praising your bravery, brother.” Thor says enthusiastically. “There is to be a feast in your honor as soon as you are well enough!”

 When isn’t there one? It is all the Aesir know, a good kill with bountiful food and mead flowing. He sighs in annoyance. Were it anyone else, that person would have picked up on his displeasure. However, Thor is oblivious as always, and prattles on.

 “True, it was a most unconventional battle, but then again your opponent was unconventional as well.” That great oaf, can’t he understand that he has absolutely no desire to dwell on that being ever again?

 He can feel Thor smiling though the curtain. “We will have to remedy that, by the way.  A noble quest, like before all of this happened. It is a good thing the coronation was postponed, as it will enable us with more freedom in our travels.”

 His patience is frayed. He has no desire to hear such inane chatter, but his brother is the only one he will allow in the room at the moment. “I do not think it will be possible.”

 “Nonsense!” he replies joyfully. “There is always so beast that needs slaying!” He chuckles. “We could always go to Jotunheim, if need be.”

 His anger burns him. He is too tired, too bitter for understanding. Never mind that he agrees, Thor has insulted him, however unknowingly. The fool talks and talks, and Loki can feel rage filling him.

 “…it will be grand, I know it!” Thor still hasn’t stopped. “And our Father…”

 No, not his Father. Thor’s maybe, Thor the crown prince and his king of a father. But Loki has been renounced, and has no place here. It is high time Thor knows that. He has spent his life trying to cure the idiot of his ignorance, it would be such a shame to stop now!

 And the ridiculous lout is still talking about Odin’s thrice-damned pride! It is the final straw, the final crack before he howls with fury. Blindly, he lungs towards Thor, and rips the curtain to shreds.

 His not-brother recoils from shock, obviously not understanding the origin of such an outburst. The momentum forces him to stumble back. He scowls, obviously displeased by Loki’s behavior. When he regains his footing, he looks up to glare at him. And freezes.

 Loki knows he must be quite a sight. Hair wild, eyes crazed and red, half-crouched to leap. And most importantly, blue lips pulled into a sneer, revealing pointed black teeth.

 Thor’s eyes widen. “Brother, what…?”

 Loki’s laughter comes out as a growl. “And now you see me, _brother._ ”

 Thor’s mouth opens, closes, and opens again. Loki can see the exact moment realization dawns on him.

 And then, for the first time in his life, Thor Odinson backs down and flees. He runs straight out of the room, leaving his brother behind.

 With a broken laugh, Loki slides to the floor.

 What had he expected, really?

 

**Author's Note:**

> Damit Odin, make an effort!
> 
> So this is the third part of the series. There will be a fourth, and then we'll see. Considering what I have planned so far, a fifth installment would require a multi-chapter fic, which I am not going to start until I am at least halfway-through "In winter's care." 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Criticism is always welcome.


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